Thursday, April 22, 2010

Working Class Suitor.

People usually say that once you’re away from your roots, by yourself and trying to grow up, even the busiest and most alive of cities where you have 5 different people to share your last meal of the day with, become lonely and those 5 people become images projected through rays of light. You can see them, probably even interact with them, but can’t touch or feel them, because they reveal their hollowness once you come too close. What’s left is your finger poking through that image of light crystals, which ultimately only cause distortion, leaving no sense of touch to your hand.

Well I’m away from home and trying to make something out of my first name alone. It’s not exactly a whipped cream cakewalk, but I guess baking the cake yourself makes it more appetizing eh? Anyways, I was annoyed cause of a bunch of reasons, and I was dining late, by myself at the local dhaba opposite home, which I frequent, well mostly cause those guys like me and serve me well. (And no, I’m not asocial to eat by myself, I was running late.) Another man and I were the only two people there, both waiting for our food. Hunger makes you think about strange things; college hasn’t exactly been the most co-operative body, my jeans were really loose today, well that’s cause my faithful Lee belt gave way yesterday, I need 3 people to chip in for new earphones man, I can’t walk around college with my spare ones, looking like a call centre entrant. Also this place needs new cutlery; bloody bent fork. I was aimlessly waiting for my egg fried rice; I think the guys noticed my being in a bad mood. What I heard next only compelled me to actually discreetly listen to more, and slow down my pace of eating, which is usually gluttonous. That only other man seated at the next plastic table, was actually pulling his hair, shrieking on the phone. I don’t know what triggered him. Whatever I heard implied his talking to the woman in his life. It only gets gory here on. I am forced to quote him or it loses impact from his life and this ramble. He went on to say things like “Saali tujhse pyaar karke bahut badi galti ho gayi mujhse”, slammed his hand on his forehead, hard enough for the man at the counter to get up, but not do anything yet. He sobered down a little, rather went frail, only to continue “Jab tu ek missed call maarti hai, tujhe pata hai, main ghar se bahar daud ke tujhe call karta hoon”. “Pooray family se jhagda karke tujhse pyar kiya, aur tu saali mujhe dhokha de rahi hai?”. “Nahi karegi tu mujhse, tu mujhse kabhi pyar kar hi nahi paayegi”. Soon his tone and volume mellowed down, and he weakened beyond just a fall in volume, “Mere acchayi ka faayeda uthaya tune, aisa kyun kar rahi hai tu?” His posture became a slouch, his head hung low as he continued talking, struggling not to show her how weak he is, but in vain. Just looking at him for these many minutes, I could see how much more he wanted to say, but he just couldn’t find words that would make her un-do whatever she did. He looked like a simple man, in fact the area under his right arm at his white shirt was torn, not like he had been in a scuffle or something, anyways that’s not the point. He just wanted schezwan sauce with his chicken lollipop man; sadly they were out of the spicy garnish. Funnily it all fit so perfectly; he had his chicken lollipop in front of him, waiting to fill him up, but that sick sauce evaded him, while that’s the simple thing he wanted to end his day. He went on further to curse at that woman, not with angst or malice, but struggling really hard to contain himself; he just couldn’t help but breakdown on that red and white checked table cloth. Never have I seen a man go so weak where he is toiling to keep the respectful man inside him awake, while talking to the woman who probably was the one who made him that formidable in the first place, who was now withdrawing everything so unpleasantly and the vulnerable and helpless person who needed out. He was snivelling by now, wiping his face every now and then, still wanting to tell her so much more; but all that he managed was shuttling between curses to the entire female species, and reiterating what he’s got in return of giving her everything he had, monetarily to morally. This was genuine. I don’t know, I maybe wrong but in spite of making it clear to her that he’s not going to answer her call, that’s exactly what he did, the next 3 times, she called back only to hurt him more. I can’t possibly quote him more, not because it would be uncivilised of me to do so, or because the language is too crass; it’s just not right for me to talk like that, and also it might offend certain people of society who still indulge in denial, and live with the notion that every girl is the Nirma girl, holding her frock, on which there never shall be a dirty stain. Damn it, the entire frock, is stained. Red. That girl today has probably lost it to some rich f*** and cannot take your call now cause she’s in the midst of filming. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t believe in generalisation. Not all woman kind is like this. Nor am I saying men are saints; I’m merely stating what I saw. This rant is only for that sect of the fairer sex, who does this. Not once, Not twice, repeatedly; still believing that they’re in the right, living their youth. Man after man, loses his faith in this emotion that is supposed to be “beautiful”. Screw being beautiful. Is she even capable of making one evening memorable for him, rather than it being the other way around? Forget an evening; make a bloody phone call memorable, where he hasn’t lobbied for her, with her notoriously making her fingers swivel with command and hegemony, smiling cheekily thinking it’s all in jest. Her concept of jest hurts. It kills. Does she even think about the amount of pain she’s causing? Leave the heart out of this, darn we don’t even have proof that we emote from the heart. Play with his head. Keep playing. Continue playing. He takes it, thinking there’s something worth it at the end of this gravel laden road. How he doesn’t know, it’s a fucking cliff; and he’s going to be pushed. Straight down. No harness. Finally what happens? That simple man, who knew nothing about mind games and ulterior motives, has so abruptly and harshly been shown her reality that now he’s too scared to move from the hospital bed. Yeah. He survived; when she pushed him. He did. What’s the use though? He’s too dead from inside. Surprisingly his limbs and bones are intact, I really don’t give a rat’s ass about the heart, until there’s enough proof that cupid actually aims for that pump. You know what is broken beyond repair? His thinking. His expectations. His bloody way of life. His mind. Feels good? She should move on to her next target no? Don’t you think? Isn’t that how these parasitical women live? No? They have a conscience? Really? Shocking.

Remember the whipped cream, self-baked cake I mentioned? Yeah well, we dumb-folk still think it tastes better when you have someone to share it. Why? Because even after all this what we uphold above everything, is very different from what she was holding “under” everything last night. Her smile. Her eyes. That time she opened her hair. When she tied it again. When she waited for a moment, smiled and ran. I should stop here. Even though I thought I had grown, I’m getting into this fairy tale stuff again, that doesn’t really exist. A sincere request, finish with him properly- that working class suitor/ admirer, whatever. Have that much courtesy, before moving on to the next one who’ll click more pictures of you and decorate his house with them. Well, “Tumhari toh jaat hi aisi hai”.
To all the respectful women whom I may have hurt, I’m sorry. Such people exist. I saw it today.

“See the liar that burns within,
It's more than just words: it's just tears and rain.”
- James Blunt.


  1. Interesting and very well written. Shiv, I like.

  2. That was intense. Nicely written dude.

  3. Thanks.. :)
    Why dont you write that much anymore?

  4. Hmmmm. You asked me to read so here I am :)
    Despite the obvious fact that being one of the "fairer sex" I cannot really relate to your rant. I still thought this piece was pretty intense. And what I particularly admired was that even though you're not exactly one of the "working-class suitors" you managed quite aesthetically (from their point of view) and honestly to portray their feelings. The anger in the way you wrote made it feel extremely personalized. I'm glad that you've quite pointedly mentioned in many places how you don't intend to generalize or insult. But irrespective of which sex one belongs to, I just have a suggestion. Don't limit yourself to one side of the story. As a writer the most important thing is to gather all you can, even if it's a fictional piece that you're putting together. And try not to take sides. Again don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that you should subdue or suppress your opinion about something however strong. Just know how to convey it so that nobody gets offended but they still understand your message. That's all. But, but, but :) This is amazing. And I'm looking forward to more such intense stuff from you :) :)

  5. I always try my best to write, or at least know both sides of a story, but that man wasn't in a very nice place, I did contemplate making conversation with him; also i can't say in words, the intensity in his eyes, when he broke down.
    And, bye bye emo stuff. Good evening aggressiveness. :P

  6. "aggressively" intense!
    (I wrote nearly an essay for a comment and it dissapeared, so i'm going to keep this short...hopefully)

    Firstly, have to say - WOW!
    Even if whatever you observed was so damn moving and charged, you'd still have to be a darn good writer to translate those emotions and images into words!

    Secondly, about the whole 'fairer sex' thing (realy?? :P )- I'm sure if you place all the atrocities committed by women against men in a 100 years, it still wont match up to vice-versa in a day (biased viewpoint, but you get it...)(not a justification, just a mention)
    Basically, every human that crawls this earth is equally capable of hurting another methinks...

  7. On the assumption that uninvited comments are not entirely unwelcome:
    Why I identify with the strand of thought in spite of being one of the opposite sex can probably be attributed to my ...lets say...somewhat different childhood.
    That aside, your writing is simple, raw and honest. There's this sense of eagerness and youth that stares ahead, straight at the reader.
    Something quite delightful about it, something instigative, I can't quite pin it down. A good piece of writing brings a plethora of emotions to the forefront and I believe this is one of those. I love that its opinionated. I think as a writer you've got to be opinionated, you've got to take a stance.(from Dostoevsky and Camus to Orwell and Wodehouse, they were all fierce and passionate) That is not to say that you mustn't acknowledge the existence of all possible stands... You've got something here...that's certain.